THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


ROBERT    K.    WEEKS. 


NEW    YORK: 

LEYPOLDT    &     HOLT. 

1866. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  I860,  by 
ROBERT  K.  WEEKS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 
for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


JOHX   F.   TROW   &   CO., 

PRIHTERS.  STEREOTTPERS,  4-  ELECTROTYPER3. 
40    OREE.tE    STREET,    1C.T. 


PS 
3/5"? 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


759456 


CONTENTS. 


PART    FIRST. 

PAGE 

Study  of  Trees,  .  .  .  .  .II 

Whip-poor-will,      .            .            .            .            .  15 

Moonrise,           ......  16 

Song,           ......  18 

A  Sunset,          ......  19 

Twilight,      ......  21 

A  Rainy  Day,  ......  22 

Sunshine,     ......  23 

An  Early  Spring,         .....  25 

A  Mocking-Bird,    .....  27 

Four  Sonnets,  ......  30 

A  Water-Lily,         .            .            .            .            .  34 

Roses,    .......  35 

The  Lost  Moon,    .....  36 

Bees,     .......  37 

Westward,  ......  39 


6  CONTENTS. 

PART    SECOND. 

PAGB 

Pursuing,          ......  43 

Possession, ......  44 

Sunlight  and  Shadow,  .....  45 

Lovers,        ......  50 

From  Below,    ......  51 

Absence,      ......  53 

A  Country  Lover,        .....  55 

A  Fanatic,  ......  57 

A  Freeman,      ......  59 

Good-Bye,  ...            .            .            .            .  60 

Protesilaus,       .  .  .  .  .  .61 

A  Hand, 66 

Margaret,          ......  68 

Skating,       .            .            .            .            .            .  71 

A  Woman's  Work,     .....  73 

A  Woman's  Failure,         ....  75 

A  Man's  Failure,         .  .  .  .  .80 

Moonlight,  ......  88 

At  Sea,.            ......  90 

A  Blasted  Tree,     .....  96 

An  Enemy,       ......  99 

The  Good  Pursuit,            .            .           .            .  101 

A  Path 103 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

Anteros.      ......  105 

A  Rose,  ......       107 

Compensation,        .....  109 

A  Spring  Song,  .  .  .  .  .       iio 

Faint  Heart,  .  .  .  .  .  in 

A  Vagabond,    .  .  .  .  .  .113 

Unknown  Blessings,          .  .  .  .  115 

A  Sinner,          .  .  .  .  .  .117 

Won  and  Lost,      .  .  .  .  .  121 

Lost  and  Won,  .  .  .  .  .124 

The  Life  of  Love,  .  .  .  .  127 

Epilogue,  .....       142 


/  heard  a  bird 

In  the  -wood  sing  dear, 
With  a  true  sours  power  of  melody, 
The  very  songs  that  my  heart  indeed 
Had  dimly  dreamed  of  in  its  need, 

Not  knowing  what  it  wished  to  hear, 
But  stung  by  the  pain  of  a  wish  denied, 
Till  now  it  was  known  and  satisfied ; 
And  in  with  the  joy  of  the  glorious  song 
There  came  a  longing  more  than  strong 
For  power  but  once,  if  it  so  must  be, 
To  tell  my  love  for  him  worthily. 

But  what  is  my  love  to  tJie  strong-voiced  bird 

Who  never  has  heard  of  me — 

Whom  never  I  hope  to  see  ? 
Were  it  more,  do  you  think,  if  its  voice  were  heard  ? 


PART     FIRST. 


POEMS. 


A    STUDY    OF    TREES. 


"1  T  7HAT  a  glorious  thing  to  be 
Is  yonder  oak  I  see  ! 

Which  stands  alone  with  arms  outspread, 

Solemn  voice  and  sunlit  head 
Boldly  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Like  a  seer  that  prophesies 
Of  a  glory  even  now 
God  has  shed  upon  his  brow. 


I2  A    STUDY   OF    TREES. 

II. 

But  I  love  better  to  see 
The  golden  smile  of  the  chestnut  tree, 
Which  seems  in  itself  to  be 
The  truth  as  well  as  the  prophecy; 
For  it  gives  the  light  as  well  as  receives, 
And  is  what  the  other  believes. 

And  I  love  it  best  of  all 
When  it  hails  the  wind  with  a  shout, 
Just  winces  once  at  the  cutting  frost — 
More  a  quiver  of  joy  than  pain — 

Then  lifts  its  head, 
And  the  boughs  are  tost. 
And  the  nuts  leap  out 
From  the  velvet  bed, 
And  hurry  away  to  the  leaves  that  fall 
From  the  joyous  tree  in  a  golden  rain  : 

Then  calls  again 
Till  the  children  hear, 


A    STUDY    OF   TREES.  ^ 

And  answer  back  with  a  sudden  cheer 
That  smites  the  air  so  pure  and  clear, 
With  a  ringing  music  far  and  near. 

Then  a  quick,  quick  beat 
Of  little  feet, 

And  the  place  is  won 

And  the  work  begun. 

So  they  gather  the  fruit  that  is  rightly  theirs, 

While  the  fatherly  trees 
Bending  above,  murmur  the  love 

That  they  cannot  say, 
Nor  the  children  hear,  though  a  holy  peace 

Is  creeping  over  them  unawares, 
To  be  needed  and  found  in  an  after  day. 

O  brave  old  trees  !  when  the  gold  is  gone, 
And  the  boughs  are  bare  to  the  biting  air, 
And  the  children  have  left  you  all  alone, 
Shall  I  love  you  less  ? 


I4  .4    STUDY    OF   TREES. 

Nay,  rather  more  ;  for  my  loneliness 

Shall  have  greater  need  of  the  cheering  smile 

And  the  whispering  voices  passed  away, 
And  a  longing  stronger,  because  in  vain, 

For  the  blessed  light  of  a  dearer  day, 
Shall  make  me  love  you,  looking  the  while 

At  the  thin  black  boughs  on  a  sky  of  gray, 
Shivering  bare  in  the  winter  rain. 


THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

O  AD  and  shrill,  sad  and  shrill,  sad  and  shrill 
Comes  the  cry, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ! 
Below  the  gloomy  alder  boughs 
The  sullen  brooklet  darkly  flows, 
The  wind  creeps  doubtfully  by, 

Faint  and  dim  are  the  stars  in  the  pale  gray  sky, 
The  dew  falls  heavily  and  chill ; 

The  slimy  toad  beside  the  moss-grown  wall 

And  I,  are  all 
That  listen  to  the  dreary  cry, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will  J 


i6 


MOONRISE. 

T    OOK  at  Orion  above, 

Steady  and  calm  in  the  sky, 
Strong  in  the  strength  of  his  love, 

Though  half  of  the  night  is  gone  by. 

Clear  and  undimmed  is  his  eye, 
Though  he  yearns  for  the  hour  of  grace  ; 
Cheerful  and  bright  is  his  face, 
Though  the  longing  is  eager  and  strong^ 
Though  he  knows  that  his  waiting  is  long, 

And  that  half  of  the  night  is  gone  by. 
For  he  will  not  acknowledge  the  pain, 
Nor  believe  that  his  love  is  in  vain. 


MOONRISE.  i 

So  he  will  cheerfully  wait, 

Looking  and  loving  alone, 
Till  she  comes  in  her  glory  and  state, 

The  longed-for,  the  beautiful  one. 
Then  when  he  sees  her  at  last, 

And  the  pride  of  her  presence  is  known, 
And  the  wearisome  waiting  is  past, 

And  the  joy  of  her  love  is  his  own, 
Then  shall  he  falter  and  fail ; 

And-  the  face  that  was  steady  and  bright 
Shall  flush  once  and  after  be  pale, 

And  the  glorious  eyes  that  so  long 

Could  look  out  and  illumine  the  night, 

Shall  tremble  and  change  and  be  less, 

And  Orion  the  patient  and  strong, 
When  he  knows  that  no  waiting  is  vain, 

Shall  reel  and  be  faint  with  excess 
Of  a  joy  that  is  keener  than  pain. 


i8 


SONG. 


/~T~VHE  butterfly  may  hover 

Where  gold-eyed  daisies  grow, 
And  round  and  round  the  clover 

The  drunken  bee  may  go, 
But  the  strong-winged  bird  flies  over, 

And  leaves  them  there  below. 


The  wind  may  keep  on  bringing 

Sweet  sounds  to  the  leaves  that  sigh 

The  brook  may  join  his  singing 
To  the  cricket's  merry  cry, 

But  the  strong  bird's  song  is  ringing 
Above  them  in  the  sky. 


SUNSET. 


/^\   THE  glory  of  the  sky  that  is  mine  ! 
Far  above,  a  stretch  of  blue, 
With  a  veil  of  silver  gray 
Slipping  downward  to  combine 
With  a  shadow  hardly  seen 
Of  the  palest  fading  green  ; 

And  beneath, — 
(How  their  edges  seem  to  breathe 

And  to  curl 
In  the  fire  that  has  burnt  them  through  and 

through  !) 

Adding  purple  to  the  pearl, 
Are  the  moving  clouds  uprolled 
From  a  sun  that  melts  away 
In  a  depth  of  glowing  gold. 


SUNSET. 
2 

It  is  mine,  all  mine, 
All  the  glory  of  the  light. 
And  it  cannot  slip  away 
With  the  going  of  the  day, 
But  I  have  and  hold  it  fast ; 
So  when  all  the  day  is  past 
I  will  walk  into  the  night, 

Make  the  darkness  also  mine, 
And  receiving  it  aright, 

Find  it  none  the  less  divine  ! 


2T 


T  W I  L I G  H  T> 

OOK,  how  it  dies  away, 

The  glory  of  the  West ! 
So  goes  another  day 

That  should  have  made  us  blest. 
And  slow  the  silent  shade 

Creeps  round  us  here  alone, 
Too  sad  to  be  afraid 

Of  aught  the  night  may  bring 
To  us  whose  day  is  gone 

While  we  are  wandering. 
And  yet  there  is  a  light 

Which  we  shall  find,  I  know, 

That  does  not  shine  to  show 
The  coming  of  the  night. 


22 


A    RAINY    DAY. 

\     WIND  that  shrieks  to  the  window  pane, 

A  wind  in  the  chimney  moaning, 
A  wind  that  tramples  the  ripened  grain, 

And  sets  the  trees  a-groaning  ; 
A  wind  that  is  dizzy  with  whirling  play, 
A  dozen  winds  that  have  lost  their  way 

In  spite  of  the  others'  calling. 
A  thump  of  apples  on  the  ground, 
A  flutter  and  flurry  and  whirling  round 

Of  leaves  too  soon  a-dying ; 
A  tossing  and  streaming  like  hair  unbound 

Of  the  willow  boughs  a-flying  ; 
A  lonely  road  and  a  gloomy  lane, 
An  empty  lake  that  is  blistered  with  rain, 

And  a  heavy  sky  that  is  falling. 


H 


SUNSHINE. 
ERE  is  a  thought  which  puzzles  me. 


Whether  the  fruitless  tree, 
Which  shares  the  sunshine  equally 

With  all  the  rest, 
Feels  not  a  bitter  feeling  burn, 
That  makes  the  blessing  half  unblest, 
In  that  however  he  may  yearn, 
He  cannot  make  return, — 
Nay,  more— can  never  prove 
His  gratitude  and  love, 


24  8  UN  SHINE. 

Because  to  him  it  is  denied 
Like  those  more  favored  ones  who  grow 

Else  all  unenvied  at  his  side, 
By  wealth  of  golden  fruit  to  show 
How  he  has  caught  the  genial  glow, 

And  loves  it  with  a  perfect  pride. 

Or  is  he  all  content  with  this  ? — 
To  drink  the  sunlight,  feel  the  bliss  ; 

Sure  that  the  sun  above 
(Because  himself  so  full  of  love) 
Knows  all  the  love  he  cannot  speak, 
That  not  his  love,  but  he,  is  weak  ; 
And  though  he  only  may  receive, 
Can  of  his  gratitude  believe 
That  it  may  even  greater  be 
Than  that  of  golden-fruited  tree. 


25 


AN    EARLY    SPRING. 


T T THAT  if  I  found  a  crocus  yesterday, 

And  then  a  hyacinth  in  perfect  bloom  ? 
They  only  prove  this  Southern  March  is  May. 
I  gain  an  earlier  spring,  but  throw  away 
Sweet  days  and  nights  which  would  have  given  me 

A  longer  joy  than  hyacinth-perfume, 
And  surer  promises  than  here  I  see 

Of  better  summer  days  than  these  can  ever  be. 
3 


26  AIT  EARLY   SPRING. 

2 

Bloom,  hyacinth  and  crocus — not  for  me  ; 

Shine,  genial  Sun — not  genial  to  my  heart ; 
Blow,  winds  of   Spring;    flow,  waters  fresh  and 

free, 

And  be  to  others  what  you  cannot  be 
To  those  who  will  not  bear  with  your  delay, 

But  snatch  and  crush  the  joy  you  else  impart. 
O,  little  joy  is  there  in  blooming  May 
For  him   who   knows   not   March   and   many   a 
doubtful  day ! 


A    MOCKING-BIRD. 


f  •  VHE  bird  whose  singing  I  love  the  best, 

Of  all  the  birds  that  I  yet  have  heard, 
I  think  must  be  this  mocking-bird, 
Whose  song,  as  it  follows  unchecked  and  free 
The  widening  course  of  its  sympathy, 
Has  clearly  the  power  to  make  me  blest, 
Above  the  singing  of  all  the  rest. 


Not  Mocking-Bird,  but  Interpreter 

Of  joys  and  longings  the  others  in  vain 
Had  tried  to  infuse  in  their  feeble  strain, 


28  ^    MOCKING-BIRD. 

Till  the  full  song  rose,  and  the  thoughts  astir 
In  the  lesser  songs  were  at  once  made  plain, 
And  the  sweet  birds  wondered  to  hear  him  fling, 

In  his  sun-like  way,  to  the  waiting  air 

The  strangest  wealth  of  unceasing  song  ; 

To  whose  completeness  all  sounds  belong 

Of  flowing  waters,  and  waving  trees, 

And  the  changing  voice  of  the  wandering  breeze, 
And  the  dreamy  noises  of  early  spring, 

That,  languidly  borne  on  the  moist,  warm  air, 

Whisper — who  knows  what  message  ? — there. 

3 

And  Interpreter,  too,  for  me.     Ah,  yes  ! 
I  too  may  listen  and  wonder  to  hear, 
In  an  unvexed  music,  pure  and  clear, 
That  song  of  beauty,  so  hard  to  express, 
Which  yet  shall  be  born  of  earth's  restlessness, 
When  the  passionate  yearnings  that  nought  availed, 
The  love  that  stammered,  the  faith  that  failed, 


A    MOCKING-BIRD.  2g 

The  soul's  true  dream  that  it  could  not  prove, 
All  good  thoughts,  meant  for  the  sky  above, 

That  faltered  and  fell  from  a  feeble  lip, — 
Shall  make  music  at  last — ah,  hearts  that  long ! — 
And  the  discord  be  changed  to  a  perfect  song 
That  cannot  falter,  uprising  strong 
From  the  full,  free  faith  of  a  living  love, 

And  the  joy  of  an  infinite  fellowship  ! 


I. 

T  TERE  were  the  place  to  lie  alone  all  day, 

On  shadowed  grass  beneath  the  sunlit  trees, 

With  leaves  forever  trembling  in  the  breeze, 
While  close  beside,  the  brook  keeps  up  alway 
The  old  love-murmur,  wooing  me  to  stay 

And  hear  the  dreamy  music  all  at  ease. 
The  old  love-murmur  ;  such  she  heard,  I  deem, 

White  Arethusa  in  her  maiden  grace, 

When,  naked  after  the  fatiguing  chase, 
She  bathed  alone  in  Alpheus'  shady  stream, 

And  throwing  back  the  wet  hair  from  her  face, 
Listening  a  moment,  half  entranced   did  seem ; 

Then  frightened,  from  the  rising  God's  embrace 
Fled  glistening,  like  the  spirit  of  a  dream. 


II. 

CLIMB  and  stand  upon  the  grassy  height : 

Beneath  a  cloudless  heaven's  tranquillity, 
The  sun  is  gone,  and  slowly  comes  the  night 

Across  the  silent  fields,  but  gloriously 
The  West  is  shining  with  a  golden  light, 

Where  purple  hills  stand  sharp  against  the  sky, 
And  seem  to  girdle  in  the  world,  and  keep 

An  endless  barrier  'tween  the  sea  and  land. 
I  turn  :  below,  just  wakened  from  its  sleep, 

The  lake  is  beating  music  on  the  sand  ; 
Above  it,  resting  on  the  mountain  steep, 

The  naked  beauty  of  the  moon  is  seen, 
And  a  great  joy  comes  to  me,  for  I  stand 

Between  a  birth  and  death  alike  serene. 


III. 

TT  7ITH  half-closed  eyes,  within  the  swaying 
boat, 

I  dream  upon  the  beauty  of  the  day  : 

The  world  with  all  its  noise  is  far  away ; 
I  only  hear  the  cricket's  endless  note, 

That  mars  not  silence,  seeming  but  to  be 
Its  echo  ;  and  the  never-ceasing  beat 

Of  sleepy  ripples  tossing  dreamily  : 
Upon  the  boughs  that  shade  me  from  the  heat, 

The  birds  sit  fearlessly  within  my  sight ; 
Close  to  me  nods  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

Unstartled  are  the  shining  fish  below ; 
Surely,  if  I  can  read  this  day  aright, 

'Tis  better  to  lie  thus  unfeared,  than  row 
With  sounding  oars  that  scatter  and  affright. 


IV. 

T  STAND  where  in  the  summer  I  have  stood, 

But  all  is  changed.    There  is  no  sight  of  green 
Save  yonder,  in  the  stiff-branched  cedar  wood, 

Whose  dull,  cold  leaves  are  gloomy  to  be  seen  ; 
The  little  hill — great  growth  of  grass  was  there, 

Where  jolly  crickets  leaped  and  sang  before — 
Rusty  and  dead,  slopes  slowly  down  to  where 

Foul  ice  lies  stranded  on  the  slimy  shore, 
For  the  sad  river  with  a  low,  dull  moan, 

Leaving  his  shore  flows  sullenly  apart ; 
But  I,  who  stand  in  silence  here  alone 

Looking  on  these,  am  nothing  sad  at  heart ; 
For  over  all  there  is  a  pure,  bright  sky, 
Wherein  the  sun  is  shining  gloriously. 


A    WATER    LILY. 

'"TpOUCH  it  not :  too  cold  and  white 
It  lies  in  its  dreamy,  silent  sleep, 

Over  the  waters  still  and  deep, 
Still  and  deep  and  dark  as  night. 

Touch  it  not,  for  well  I  know, 

Far  away  down  deep  below, 
Its  roots  are  tangled  in  the  hair, 
(Golden  and  long  like  this  you  wear,) 
Floating  over  a  face  as  fair, 

And  as  white  and  still  and  cold,  ah  me ! 
As  the  voiceless  flower  reflected  there 

Dreaming  over  the  mystery. 

Touch  it  not,  for  such  are  we  ; 
Beautiful  blossoms  of  Life  that  grow 

O'er  an  unknown  depth,  with  roots  that  lie 

Floating,  but  linked  with  a  secret  tie 
To  a  beautiful  Death  below. 


35 


ROSES. 

T    ET  Love  live  with  the  roses, 
While  they  are  fresh  and  fair, 

While  June's  warm  breath  uncloses 
Sweet  secrets  hidden  there, 
That  charm  the  listening  air. 

For  beauty  of  red  roses 
Is  beauty  though  it  goes, 

And  lesser  love  supposes 
A  greater,  as  He  knows 
Who  made  and  loves  the  rose. 


THE    LOST    MOON. 


TN  among  the  changing  cirri, 

Transient  children  of  the  noon, 
Soulless  shapes  of  mocking  light, 

Far  away  I  see  the  moon, 
All  alone  and  pale  and  weary, 
Looking,  longing  for  the  night. 


Looking,  longing,  waiting,  loving, 
Ah !  thou  weary  one  but  true, 

Lost  but  faithful,  well  I  know 
Other  souls  that  wander  too, 

Unapproved  and  unapproving, 

Till  the  soulless  ones  shall  go. 


THE    BEES. 


TTERE  I  lie  alone  in  silence, 

Listening,  only  half  at  ease, 
To  the  dreamy,  murmuring  music 

Of  the  never-weary  bees, 
That  comes  floating  hither  to  me 

On  the  light  and  fragrant  breeze, 
Like  the  whispered  words  of  lovers 

Underneath  the  blooming  trees. 
Ah,  the  bees,  the  joyous  workers, — 

If  a  man  could  work  like  these  ! 
4 


THE  BEES. 

2 

Is  the  secret  lost  for  ever  ? 

Who  shall  answer  me — who  knows  ? 
But  I  hear  it, darkly  hinted  at 

In  every  wind  that  blows  ; 
Darkly  sung  or  darkly  whispered 

Where  the  water  falls  or  flows  ; 
Hear  it  everywhere,  and  miss  it, 

And,  though  hope  yet  lives  and  grows, 
Half  my  life  lies  in  the  shadow 

Of  a  pain  that  never  goes. 


39 


WESTWARD. 

/^VUIVERING  light  of  the  golden  sky, 
^^.    Fade  not  yet,  till  the  noises  die 
Of  the  busy  world  with  its  strife  and  toil. 

Fade  not  yet,  till  thou  glorify 

t 
This  rising  dust  of  the  Earth's  turmoil, 

Gilding  it,  piercing  it,  till  men's  eyes 
Are  drawn  to  the  far-off,  quiet  skies, 
Where  broadly  writ  on  the  shining  West 
Is  a  visible  blessing,  and  promise  of  rest, 
For  the  men  who  do  as  best  they  may 
Each  his  work  through  the  dusty  day. 


PART    SECOND 


43 


I 


PURSUING. 

AM  the  moon,  you  are  the  sun, 
O  my  beloved  ! 
Too  far  removed 
Ever  by  me  to  be  won. 
The  sea  is  mine,  if  I  stoop  from  above, 
And  the  stars  grow  pale  for  the  want  of  my  love, 
But  I  leave  the  stars  and  the  longing  sea, 
For  the  fuller  love  that  afar  I  see, 
Ever  so  far  removed  from  me. 
Still  I  pursue,  will  I  pursue, 

Looking  to  you, 
Over  the  wide,  wide  space 

That  keeps  us  apart, 
Light  on  my  face, 
Love  in  my  heart ! 


44 


S 


POSSESSION. 

INGE  you  cannot  attain  her, 
Forget  her — disdain  her  ? 


Not  so  ! 
Rather  be  glad  that  she  is  so  high, 

And  keep  on  loving  forever,  although 
The  stars  that  baffle  you  in  the  sky 

May  as  soon  be  won.     'Tis  much  to  know 
That  there  are  stars  too  far  above 
To  stoop  to  be  won  by  me  or  you 

For  an  individual  blessing  ; 
Yet  we  are  blest,  for  I  hold  this  true  : 
There's  much  in  having,  but  more  in  love ; 
And  love  may  be,  so  it  seems  to  me, 
Complete  without  possessing. 


45 


SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADOW. 


T  T  7 HERE  the  still  sunlight  glided  through 
The  one  bright  break  in  shade  that  grew 
Els?  thickly,  shutting  out  the  blue, 


She  stood  with  her  own  thoughts  alone, 
Unconscious  of  the  light  that  shone 
About  her  as  if  all  her  own. 

Tall,  with  the  graceful  height  and  mien 

Of  one  whose  life  had  ever  been 

A  growth,  through  which  she  moved  serene 


46          SUNLIGHT  AND    SHADOW 

To  that  high  place  of  queenliness 
Designed  to  be  commanding  less 
Than  to  be  blessed  and  to  bless. 

\ 

Her  hair — it  was  too  light  for  gold — 
With  simple  grace  was  loosely  rolled 
From  brows  that  never  could  look  bold. 

Her  eyes  lived  in  the  clearest  light 
Of  Love,  that  says,  Would  that  I  might 
Change  all  the  wrong  I  see  to  right ! 

And  once  looked  on  by  those  pure  eyes, 
The  meanest  wretch  that  crawls  might  rise 
And  be  a  man,  to  his  surprise. 

Her  lips,  just  parted  always,  shone 
With  radiance  of  sweet  smiles,  each  one 
A  cheerful  song  in  undertone  ; 


SUNLIGHT  AND    SHADOW.         47 

Lips  that  Sir  Galahad  might  kiss, 
And,  strengthened  in  his  soul  by  this, 
Ride  on  with  greater  faithfulness. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  soft,  yet  clear 
With  earnest  sweetness — which  to  hear, 
Was  to  be  charmed  from  doubt  and  fear. 

Completing  it,  there  lay  that  trace 
Of  thoughtful  sadness  on  her  face 
For  which  Love  ever  finds  a  place. 

In  all  things  she  seemed  such  to  me 
As  made  me  glad  that  there  could  be 
Such  glory  in  humanity. 

And  looking  on  her  where  she  stood 
Serene,  with  power  to  make  good 
The  promise  of  true  womanhood, 


48          SUNLIGHT  AND    SHADOW. 

I  thought,  She  is  designed  to  be 
A  helper,  with  her  purity, 
From  sin  and  all  its  misery  ; 

A  woman,  not  to  mix  with  strife, 
But,  working  as  the  perfect  wife, 
To  guide  it  in  the  ways  of  life. 

And  dare  I  hope  that  she  may  be 
That  truthful  guide  and  help  to  me, 
To  aid  by  thought  and  sympathy  ? 

Shall  I  presume  to  make  to  pass 
The  dark  shade  of  my  life — alas  ! — 
O'er  hers,  that  yet  no  shadow  has  ? 

O,  would  that  I  were  worthy  now, 
And  every  day  could  worthier  grow 
To  ask  the  love  she  can  bestow  ! 


SUNLIGHT  AND    SHADOW.          49 

But  now  for  me  'tis  only  right 

To  thank  God  merely  for  the  sight 

Of  one  so  beautifully  bright ; 

And  ardent  longing  to  restrain, 

As  from  some  flowers  I  would  refrain, 

Lest,  touching  them,  I  leave  a  stain, 

And  so  disturb  what  else  might  be 
The  life  of  beauty,  which  to  see 
Is  the  best  hope  now  left  to  me  ; 

To  me,  whose  failure  makes  indeed 
More  urgent  and  more  great  my  need 
That  others  fail  not,  but  succeed. 
5 


LOVERS. 

the  man  who  woos  her 
To  deserve  but  lose  her, 
That  is  hard  to  bear  ; 
Yet  Truth's  failure  even 
May  be  nearer  Heaven 
Than  we  are  aware. 

From  the  man  who  woos  her 
And  deserves  to  lose  her 

Sadder  tears  may  fall ; 
But  he  whose  successes 
No  true  merit  blesses, 

Fails  the  most  of  all. 


FROM    BELOW. 

T  AM  not  one  disposed  to  chide 

For  that  full  calm  which  men  call  pride, 
That  like  a  hiding  brightness  lies 
Before  those  wide,  unwavering  eyes. 

Who  are  you  that  would  chide,  and  why  ? 
Because  that  clear,  undazzled  eye 
Keeps  something  constantly  in  view 
So  high  that  it  looks  over  you  ? 

Because  there  falls  upon  her  ear 
A  sound  that  makes  it  deaf  to  hear 
The  little  cries  of  love  or  hate 
That  issue  from  your  lower  state  ? 


52  FROM  BELOW. 

Nay,  hush  your  cries  ;  they  but  confess 
The  secret  pain  of  littleness, 
Which  sees  above  its  paltry  strife 
The  satire  of  a  noble  life. 

For  me,  I  am  rejoiced  indeed 
That  of  my  love  she  has  no  need ; 
Raised  far  above  the  doubtful  ways 
In  which  I  wander,  glad  to  gaze 

From  far  below,  on  such  as  she, 
Who  feel  the  light  I  dimly  see, 
And  know  that  one  has  made  her  own 
The  peace  for  which  I  vainly  moan. 

And  more — God  shows  in  her  the  pain 
Of  all  my  strivings  is  not  vain, 
And  makes  me  more  than  glad  to  know 
How  lovely  life  may  hope  to  grow. 


53 


ABSENCE. 

i 

T  WONDER  where  she  can  be  now ! 

Far  away  is  all  I  know  ; 
Far  away  the  glorious  brow, 

And  the  gold  hair's  rippling  flow, 
And  the  little  rosy  ear, 
When  I  speak,  so  quick  to  hear, 

And  the  eye's  serenity, 

And  the  sweet  voice,  clear  and  low, 
That  is  speaking  somewhere  now, 
Only  not  to  me  ! 


54  ABSENCE. 

2 

That  is  the  strangest :  somewhere  now 
She  is  speaking  ;  well  I  know 

How  the  head  is  turned,  and  how 
For  a  moment  she  will  show 

The  little  dimple  when  she  smiles  ; — 

Only  there  are  miles  and  miles 
Stretched  between  us,  and  I  sigh 
For  the  sweet  voice,  clear  and  low, 

Some  one  must  be  hearing  now. 
Would  that  it  were  I ! 


55 


A    COUNTRY    LOVER. 

T  TOW  the  brook  murmurs  down  yonder, 

Past  the  black  hole  as  it  flows  ! 
Maybe  some  dead  man  lies  under  : 
Well,  he's  at  rest,  I  suppose  ! 

Will  my  brow  never  stop  aching  ? 

How  the  pain  shoots  through  my  head  ! 
There  are  the  crickets  too,  making 

Noise  that  would  worry  the  dead. 

Butterflies  lightly  float  over  ; 

How  long  ago  did  they  crawl  ? 
Bees  clinging  fast  to  the  clover, 

Suck  as  if  honey  were  all. 


56  A    COUNTRY   LOVER. 

Suck  away !  suck,  my  fine  fellow  ; 

Much  may  be  gathered — and  lost ! 
And  you,  in  your  black  and  your  yellow, 

Wait  till  there  comes  a  good  frost ! 

Autumn  will  settle  the  matter 
For  you,  and  another  I  know  ; 

Then  the  young  fop,  with  his  chatter, 
Back  to  the  city  will  go. 

And  she,  when  the  fooling  and  laughter 

Are  done,  may  put  up  with  the  smart- 
Cutting  enough — that  comes  after 
Scorn  of  a  true,  loving  heart. 

Well,  there  they  go  to  the  sunset, 
She  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat : 

O,  if  I  could  only  once  set 

My  hand  to  his  delicate  throat ! 


57 


A    FANATIC. 

T"\O  I  grow  weary,  standing  here  alone, 

Hated  and  feared  of  men  because 
I  dare  to  see  the  truth  God  calls  His  own, 

And,  seeing,  speak  and  will  not  pause  ? 
Not  now — at  least  not  since  they  hiss  me  so ; 

For  their  worst  curses  come  to  me 
But  as  a  welcome  voice,  that  bids  me  know 

Their  hate  my  hope  of  victory. 
Let  but  the  curses  deepen  to  a  roar, 

And  the  roar  shape  itself  at  length 
Into  a  war-cry,  and  I  ask  no  more 

Than  that  defiance  to  the  strength 


58  A    FANATIC. 

Of  Truth  herself,  who  speaks  through  me  as  yet 

Her  hatred  of  the  sinful  Past ; 
But  then — through  her  own  thunders  men  forget, 

And  the  good  fight  begins  at  last ! 
For  Falsehood's  fools,  grown  blinder,  shall  con- 
found 

Her  craftiness  with  strength,  and  so, 
Leading  her  forth  to  Truth's  own  battle-ground, 

Shall  bid  her  strike  an  open  blow — 
Her  first  and  last — which  she  shall  strike,  and 
fall; 

Add  one  more  curse,  do  one  more  wrong, 
And  then  by  Truth  be  trampled  once  for  all ! 

While  I sleep  quietly  and  long, 

Finding  a  sleep  which  will  be  pleasant  then  ; 

But  now,  too  full  of  shapes  of  woe, 
And  the  sad  wailings  of  my  fellow-men, 

Is  terrible,  and  should  be  so. 


59 


A    FREEMAN. 

T  T  7H  AT  if  he  speak  not — is  he  then  less  grand  ? 
What  if  we  know  him  not — does  God  not 
know  ? 

I  tell  you,  he  is  bravely  climbing  from  below, 
And  though  he  answer  not  to  your  demand, 
Let  him  go  on  to  seek  the  upper  land. 

His  are  the  larger  love,  the  wider  sight, 
That  by  the  larger  labor  must  be  shown. 

Let  him  go  on,  and  we  shall  see,  some  night, 
Some  sad,  wild  night  when  doubts  and  darkness 
grow, 

Far  over  us  a  sudden  blaze  of  light 
Glow  through  the  dark ;  and  thus  it  shall  be  known 

Where  he  is  standing  on  an  unseen  height, 
And  speaks  no  word,  but  waves  a  flaming  brand, 
That  flames  for  us,  but  not  for  us  alone. 


6o 


GOOD-BYE. 

O,  thou  brave  one  !  now,  as  ever, 

Strong  to  wed  a  true  endeavor 
To  the  hope  within  thee,  growing 
Ever  stronger  with  thy  going. 

Where  thy  noble  soul  would  lead  thee, 
To  the  darkness  where  they  need  thee, 
Go,  and  fear  not,  O  my  brother  ! 
God  helps  him  who  helps  another. 


6i 


PROTESILAUS. 

c  T  TE   dies  who  first  shall  touch  the  Trojan 

shore!" 

The  oracle  has  said,  and  soon  the  event 
Must  follow  on  the  prophecy  ;  for  now 
Across  the  intervening  waste  I  look, 
And  see  the  line  of  land  where  the  dark  waves, 
Warned  off  by  unseen  powers,  reluctantly 
Fall  back  upon  themselves.     It  is  the  shore, 
The  shore  of  Troy,  which  who  first  touches  dies. 

Who  is  he  of  the  Greeks  marked  out  to  die  ? — 
To  die  thus  at  the  threshold  of  his  fame, 
Denied  the  harvest  of  the  planted  past, 
Held  back  from  following  the  future  years 

Bright  with  unproven  promises,  which  seem 
6 


62  PROTESILAUS. 

So  great  at  any  time,  so  more  than  great 
To  him  who  sees  them  with  despairing  eyes  ? 
He  loses  all.     For  him  the  walls  of  Troy 
Shall  fall  in  vain ;  unheard  by  him  the  hosts 
Shall  battle  on  the  field ;  and  when  at  last 
The  long,  glad  cry  of  triumph  shall  go  up, 
To  fill  the  air  with  shoutings  to  the  skies, 
He  may  not  hear  it,  nor  may  he  return 
At  any  time  across  the  beating  sea, 
A  hero  with  the  heroes,  full  of  fame. 

Who,  then,  would  die  ?  The  most  would  not,  for  each 
Counting  the  greatness  of  the  loss  yet  waits, 
And  looks  upon  his  neighbor,  saying,  He 
Can  better  go  than  I ;  he  loses  less. 
So  they  stand  still.    And  there  are  some  who  fear 
No  shape  of  death  that  conies  with  clash  of  arms, 
When  they  have  fore-revenged  themselves  by  deeds 
Of  glorious  fight ;  but  to  this  certain  death, 
This  sacrifice,  whose  victim  may  be  stained 


PROTESILAUS.  63 

With  no  blood  but  his  own,  they  have  no  will. 

And  there  are  others  with  us,  some  great  souls 

Who  dare  die  willingly,  not  asking  why 

Or  how  ;  but  these,  because  they  are  so  great, 

With  thought  and  speech  as  well  as  with  the  sword, 

The  present  and  the  after  time  do  need, 

And  they  must  live,  that  the  great  cause  die  not. 

And  I  have  left  me  there  in  Thessaly 
The  unfinished  palace,  and  the  one  I  love, 
Laodomia  ;  she,  too,  has  a  part 
In  what  I  am.     Her  have  I  left  alone, 
Save  for  the  hope  that  overlooks  the  years 
And  sees  an  end  to  waiting,  hard  to  bear, 
And  me  returning  gladly  to  her  arms. 
For  I,  too,  in  the  present  work  and  live 
As  one  who  does  his  work  in  haste,  that  he 
The  sooner  may  return  to  those  he  loves  ; 
Yet  all  the  work  he  has  to  do,  he  does. 
And  I  will  do  my  work  :  for  this  I  left 


64  PROTESILAUS. 

Laodomia  and  my  home  ;  for  this 

The  Gods  have  made  me  strong  and  great  of  heart. 

This  work,  what  is  it  ?     There  are  men  enough 

To  war  with  Troy  and  right  the  Grecian  wrong, 

Save  for  the  oracle.     For  men  are  brave, 

Although  each  counts  it  loss  to  die  at  once 

Before  his  arm  has  struck  one  blow  at  fame. 

Yet  many  an  one  must  die  before  Troy  fall ; 

And  whether  he  die  first  or  last,  alone 

Or  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of  the  strife, 

What  matters  it  unto  the  true  heroic  heart  ? 

Nay,  then,  I  count  him  happiest  of  all, 

Who  thus  can  gather  up  his  finished  life, 

And  see  the  end  of  it,  that  it  is  well. 

So  is  he  hero  to  himself,  though  stained 

With  no  blood  but  his  own.     And  so  this  task, 

Because  it  seems  so  hard  unto  the  most, 

Is  worthy  of  the  soul  that  would  be  great, 

Marking  its  greatness  by  itself. 

But  she  ?— 


PROTESILAUS.  65 

How  altogether  fall  the  heavy  oars  ! 

For  each  one  does  the  work  he  has  to  do  j 

How  the  sails  swell  and  strain  before  the  wind 

That  blows  us  onward  o'er  the  uneven  sea  ! 

The  sharp  prow  hurries  through  the  parting  wave, 

And  we  go  proudly  leading  all  the  rest 

That  seek  the  shore  of  Troy. 

So  be  it  then  ! 

And  you,  Laodomia  and  my  home, 
Farewell !     I  am  the  one  marked  out  to  die ! 

6* 


66 


A    HAND. 

/"TTVHAT  is  she — there  is  none  so  fair ; 

And  that  is  the  hand,  still  white,  you  see  ; 
For  she  wears  no  glove,  but  shows  it  bare, 

As  so  much  beauty  should  ever  be. 
That  is  the  hand.     Did  you  think  it  red — 

Red  all  over  with  blood  of  his  ? 

And  are  you  amazed  to  find — for  it  is — 
The  whitest  hand  o'  the  world  instead, 

With  only  a  hint  of  the  rose's  hue 

Where  her  own  calm  blood  shows  faintly  through  ? 

Yet  that  is  the  hand  that  did  it  all, 

That  clear  white  hand  that  she  dares  to  show, 


A    HAND.  67 

And  would  let  meet  yours  with  a  graceful  fall, 

That  you  might  hold,  if  you  wished  it  so, 
And  after  kiss,  as  he  kissed,  they  say, 
Till  your  turn  came,  as  it  would  some  day, 
And  the  hand  dipped  deep  in  another  wrong. 

O,  truthful  friend  with  the  earnest  eyes, 

That  look  on  hers  with  a  sad  surprise, 

How  she  would  smile  in  her  quiet  way, 

Could   she    look   quite    through   to    your   soul's 

dismay ! 

For  well  she  knows,  she  is  thinking  it  now, 
Quietly  under  the  still  white  brow  ; 
And  who  should  know  it  so  well  as  she  ? 
Souls  shed  no  blood  for  the  world  to  see, 
And  there  she  is  safe — how  long  ? 


68 


MARGARET. 

T  T  7ELL  enough  I  bear  it  now, 

While  the  Winter  lingers  yet, 
Hiding  all  the  fields  with  snow, — 
Fields  in  which  we  walked,  you  know, 
Not  so  very  long  ago, 

Margaret ! 
While  the  skies  are  seldom  clear, 

And  the  winds  are  wild  and  rough, 
While  no  song-bird  dares  appear, 
And  the  trees  are  bare  as  yet, 
I  can  bear  it  well  enough, 
Margaret. 


MARGARET.  69 

Well  enough  !     I  do  my  best 

To  remember  only  yet 
What  you  were,  and  pass  the  rest, 
Taking  only  for  a  test 
That  you  once  have  made  me  blest, 

Margaret ! 
Saying  to  myself,  as  I 

See  the  weary  waste  of  snow, 
And  the  clouds  about  the  sky, — 
Fields  and  skies  keep  hidden  yet, 

Why  not  she  ?   'tis  winter  now, 
Margaret ! 

Ah  !  but  when  Spring  skies  are  blue 

As  the  lost  ones  I  regret, 
When  the  trees,  and  song-birds,  too, 
Call  me  to  the  fields  anew, 
What,  then,  shall  I  think  of  you, 
Margaret  ? 


7o  MARGARET. 

Would  the  fields  might  never  change, 

Nor  the  skies  again  be  blue, 
So  I  might  not  think  it  strange 
That  you  never  come  !     And  yet, 
'Tis  too  lonely  without  you, 
Margaret ! 


SKATING. 

i 
\  ND  so  the  waiting  ends  at  last. 

The  little  hand  falls  like  a  leaf 
To  mine,  that  fain  would  hold  it  fast ; 

For,  after  waiting,  joy  is  brief, 
And  sweetest  moments  soonest  past. 

2 

And  now  together,  side  by  side, 
Too  swiftly  o'er  too  short  a  way 

Of  sunlit  ice  we  smoothly  glide, 
While  all  too  soon  the  perfect  day 

Is  leaving  us  unsatisfied. 


SKATING, 

3 

Too  short  a  way  for  hearts  that  yearn  ; 

So  far,  no  farther  go  the  rest ; 
But  how  for  us,  whose  souls  discern 

A  longing  hard  to  be  suppressed, 
Shall  we  suppress  it  and  return  ? 

4 
Would  we  could  leave  all  this  to-day, 

This  little  course,  and  skate  afar, 
Till  all  the  twilight  changed  to  gray, 

And  overhead  rose  many  a  star 
To  light  us  farther  on  our  way  ! 

5 
Why  not  believe  our  hearts,  obtain 

This  perfect  day  the  offered  grace, 
And  so  live  lives  not  all  in  vain  ? 

And  yet  she  will  not — here's  the  place 
Suppress  the  hope — we  turn  again. 


73 


A  WOMAN'S    WORK. 

T  HAVE  seen  her  again  to-day, 

With  the  pale  gold  hair,  and  the  eyes 
Where  the  light  of  the  sunset  lay, 
As  it  slipped  from  the  perfect  skies. 

And  the  same  still  smile  she  wore, 
That  in  heaven  can  hardly  change, 

Save  to  brighter,  perhaps,  than  before, 
As  it  ceases  at  last  to  be  strange. 

Yes,  I  saw  her  again,  and  am  strong — 

Strong  to  love  and  be  true  to  the  strife 
Of  my  soul,  that  attempts  to  prolong 

Its  best  moment,  and  make  it  a  life, 
7 


74  A    WOMAN'S   WORK. 

Like  to  hers  whom  I  love  with  my  soul, 

Though  my  love  must  be  never  made  known, 

Till  the  long  journey  ends  at  the  goal, 
Which  for  her  sake  I  seek  all  alone. 

All  alone,  but  with  joy,  for  I  know 
That  'tis  better  to  climb  for  her  love, 

And  to  spend  a  whole  life  loving  so, 
Than  that  she  should  stoop  once  from  above. 

'Tis  enough  for  this  life  of  a  day 
That  I  love  her,  and  say  not  a  word, 

But  live  like  her,  as  like  as  I  may, 

Till  the  time  conies  at  last  to  be  heard ; 

When  I  meet  her  in  heaven,  that  is, 
And  she  smiles  as  I  say  to  her,  Dear, 

How  I  loved  you  on  earth,  know  from  this, 
That  I  loved  you,  and  followed  you  here. 


A    WOMAN'S    FAILURE. 

'TTVHIS  is  the  fault  I  find  with  you  : 
That  where  you  might  so  easily 
Have  drawn  me  onward  to  pursue, 

And,  it  may  be,  at  last  attain 
A  true  life's  pure  serenity, 
You  rather  chose  to  stoop,  and  be 

A  dweller  with  me  on  the  plain  ; 
So  lessening  the  toil,  'tis  true, 

But  at  the  cost  of  final  gain. 


76  -A     WOMAN'S  FAILURE. 

For,  mark  now  where  we  are  to-day, 

And  think  of  where  we  might  have  been, 
If  you  had  only  dared  to  say  : 

Since  God  has  placed  me  on  the  height, 
'Tis  yours  to  climb  the  way  between  ; 
For  me,  my  love  must  still  be  seen 

In  the  assertion  of  its  right 
To  be  an  influence,  while  it  may, 

To  call  you  upward  to  the  light. 

Would  you  had  said  it !  even  though 

The  days  had  found  me  climbing  on 
Till  now  in  toil  and  pain  !   I  know 

That  life  had  been  for  both  of  us, 
Though  more  than  half  its  years  were  gone, 
A  longer  life  for  labor  done, 

And  love  still  lovelier,  proving  thus, 
To  hearts  that  dared  to  wait  and  grow, 

A  love  whose  life  is  glorious. 


A     WOMAN'S   FAILURE.  77 

Would  you  had  said  it !     Far  above 

The  narrow  circle  of  our  plain 
I  see  the  shining  heights  remove 

Still  farther  day  by  day,  while  we 
Wear  out  sad  lives,  vexed  by  the  pain 
Of  yearning  that  shall  not  attain, 

Self-doomed  for  that  one  fault  to  see 
Forevermore,  in  our  best  love, 

A  fatal  insufficiency. 

O  too  great  waste  !     And  yet,  indeed, 

I  know  you  stooped  for  pure  love's  sake, 
Too  self-forgetful  then  to  heed 

The  cost  of  that  false  sacrifice 
Whose  fruit  is  bitter  ;  we  must  make 
Atonement  for  the  laws  we  break, 

And  Love's  law  says,  Stoop  not,  but  rise  ! 
The  love  that  grows  is  what  you  need  : 

Wait  that — that  only  satisfies. 


A     WOMAN'S   FAILURE. 

Both  missed  it,  thinking  so  to  gain 

A  crown  we  had  not  worked  to  win. 
How  fair  it  was  !     But  all  in  vain 

We  guard  its  greenness,  and  too  late 
Behold  the  lifeless  leaves  begin 
To  fall  from  stiffening  thorns  within  : 

Too  true  an  emblem  of  our  fate, 
From  which  joy  passes,  leaving  pain 

To  feed  on  love,  and  so  grow  great. 

To  feed  on  love, — then  were  it  best 

To  crush  them  both,  if  haply  so 
We  may  obtain  a  little  rest  ? 

Nay,  love,  not  so  ;  the  pain  we  bear 
We  conquer  and  shall  use  :  I  know 
It  draws  us  closer  even  now  ; 

And,  though  we  failed  to  find  the  fair, 
Full  love  which  should  have  made  us  blest, 

'Tis.  still  Love's  crown  of  thorns  we  wear. 


A     WOMAN'S   FAILURE.  79 

And  we  will  wear  it,  for  Love's  sake, 

Endure  Love's  punishment,  and  do 
Our  best  from  every  throb  to  take 

Assurance  that  our  souls  have  yet 
A  power  to  feel  and  answer  to 
A  longing  for  the  good  and  true. 

And  better  so,  to  pay  the  debt, 
And  serve  the  Truth  with  hearts  that  ache, 

Than  doubt  its  beauty,  or  forget. 

Yes,  better  so  ;  the  pain  we  need 

To  prove  that  we  still  live,  although 
So  far  removed  from  life  indeed. 

And  yet  'tis  bitter — O,  it  is 
Too  bitter,  to  have  failed  to  know 
The  life  we  looked  for  long  ago, 

Whose  evidence  is  changing  bliss, 
Sure  love  and  faithful  hopes,  that  lead 

Securely  onward — not  to  this  ! 


8o 


A    MAN'S    FAILURE. 


'  /^OME,  I  will  walk  my  garden  round, 
And  many  a  goodly  flower  refuse, 
Until  the  fairest  one  be  found 

That  ever  rose-tree  sighed  to  lose ; 
That  will  I  choose. 


"  That  will  I  fasten  in  the  hair 

Of  her  who  loves  me  long  and  true. 
Droop  not,  O  rose-tree  !  to  lie  there, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  grew 
Would  part  from  you. 


A    MAN'S    FAILURE.  81 

3 

"  So  perfect  shall  it  be,  that  they 

By  whom  its  worthiness  is  seen, 
Shall  wonder  at  it  all,  and  say, 

'  A  lovelier  rose  in  shape  and  sheen 
Has  never  been.' 

4 
"  For  truly  she,  who  doth  exceed 

All  others  in  her  power  to  bless 
My  spirit  in  its  utmost  need, 
Should  find  my  offering  no  less 
Than  perfectness. 

5 
"  This  one,  I  think,  was  never  sweet ; 

And  these  are  fading — pass  them  by  ; 
These  are  all  dusty  from  the  street, 
And  these  it  were  in  vain  to  try, 
Sun-bleached  and  dry. 


82  A    MAN'S   FAILURE. 

6 

"  And  these — but  what  avails  my  care  ? 

All  are  imperfect  and  unsound  ; 
Are  these  the  flowers  I  thought  so  fair  ? 
Though  I  search  all  the  garden  round, 
Not  one  is  found. 

7 
*"  Ah,  my  heart  wearies  :  yet  I  know 

That  she  will  think  that  gift  the  best, 
However  poor,  which  I  bestow, 
Because  her  love,  without  request, 
Supplies  the  rest. 

8 
"  Nay,  e'en  with  gladness  she  would  take 

This  very  rose,  with  scarce  a  trace 
Of  living  beauty,  for  my  sake, 
And  wear  it,  like  a  thing  of  grace, 
In  the  world's  face. 


A    MAN'S   FAILURE.  83 

9 

"  So  what  I  am  is  best  to  her, 

Because  she  so  believes  in  me  ; 
Not  blindly,  as  a  worshipper, 

But  with  Love's  vision,  that  can  see 
What  I  would  be. 

10 
"  What  I  would  be — but  does  she  know 

The  fulness  of  my  heart  to-day  ? 
Her  woman's  love  has  power  to  show 
Its  depth  to  me  in  many  a  way, 
Without  delay  ; 

ii 

"  But  my  man's  love  can  but  in  part 

Show  how  its  deepest  pulses  move  : 
I  say,  '  I  love  with  all  my  heart ; ' 
But  what  that  heart  is,  what  that  love, 
I  cannot  prove. 


84  4    MAN'S   FAILURE. 

12 

"  She  asks  no  proof ;  but  I  would  be, 

In  outward,  as  in  inward  show, 
The  very  man  her  love  doth  see  ; 
Else  am  I  false  to  her,  although 
She  may  not  know. 

13 

"  So,  when  an  offering  I  bring, 

Relying  on  her  love  to  make 
A  value  for  a  worthless  thing, 
'Tis  not  enough  that  she  will  take 
It  for  my  sake. 

14 

"  And  so  this  flower,  so  faint,  so  pale, 

The  best  that  all  my  garden  shows, 
Is  nothing — nothing — and  I  fail. 

Ah,  my  sad  heart,  how  faint  it  grows, 
Like  this  poor  rose  ! " 


A    HAN'S   FAILURE.  85 

15 
So,  clouded  by  wise  foolishness, 

That  mingles  true  and  false  alway, 
Failing  where  most  he  wished  success, 
This  man,  like  many  an  one  to-day, 
Went  all  astray. 

16 
And,  though  then  wishing  to  be  true, 

Unconsciously  kept  going  fast 
Out  from  among  the  faithful  few, 

To  where  Love's  sacred  ground  at  last 
Was  wholly  past. 

17 
And  sordid  dust  of  selfish  strife 

Is  over  all  that  he  has  done  ; 
And  she,  remembering  former  life, 

Must  mourn  the  day  forever  gone 

When  they  were  one. 
8 


86  A    MAN'S   FAILURE. 

18 

O,  foolishness  of  man  !  that  says, 
"  Because  I  love  her,  I  will  go 
Apart  and  win  the  world's  loud  praise, 
To  tell  what  else  man  cannot  show, 
Nor  woman  know ; " — 

19 

That  measures  woman's  love  by  rule, 

And  half  mistrusts  its  purity 
Because  it  is  so  bountiful ; 

Then  thinks,  "  She  loves,  for  she  can  see 
What  I  will  be  ;  "— 

20 

That  calls  men's  love  a  little  thing, 
Unless  it  wear  a  worldly  dress  ; 

That  spurns  the  simple  offering, 

Which  love  can  make  indeed  no  less 
Than  perfectness ; — 


A    MAN'S   FAILURE. 
21 

That  withers  up  one  human  heart, 
And  makes  another  desolate  ; 

That  says  to  Love,  "  Stand  here  apart, 
While  I  go  down  to  prove  you  great" 
Too  late  !  too  late  ! 


87 


88 


MOONLIGHT. 

u  "V  T  AY,  wait  me  here — I'll  not  be  long 

Tis  but  a  little  way  ; 
I'll  come  ere  you  have  sung  the  song 
I  made  you  yesterday. 

"  Tis  but  to  cross  yon  streak  of  light, — 

And  fresh  the  breezes  blow  ; 
You  will  not  lose  me  from  your  sight — 
One  kiss,  and  now  I  go." 

So,  in  the  pleasant  night  of  June, 

He  lightly  sails  away, 
To  where  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 

Lies  right  across  the  bay. 


MOONLIGHT. 

And  she  sits  singing  on  the  shore 
A  song  of  pure  delight ; 

The  boat  flies  on — a  little  more, 
And  he  will  cross  the  light. 

The  boat  flies  on,  the  song  is  done, 
The  light  before  him  gleams  ; 

A  little  more,  and  he  has  won  : 
'Tis  farther  than  it  seems. 

The  boat  flies  on,  the  boat  flies  fast ; 

The  wind  blows  strong  and  free  ; 
The  boat  flies  on,  the  bay  is  past, 

He  sails  into  the  sea. 

And  on,  and  on,  and  ever  on, 
The  light  lies  just  before  ; 

But  ah,  forevermore  is  done 
The  song  upon  the  shore  ! 


AT    SEA. 


T  T  7HITHER  we  sail,  who  knows? 

But  still  the  yearning  grows, 
And  still  the  eager  ear 
Some  promise  seems  to  hear 

In  every  wind  that  blows. 

2 

And  nowhere  can  we  find, 

We  of  the  restless  mind, 
An  answering  joy  to  pain, 
Save  where  the  broad  sails  strain 

Before  the  rising  wind  ; 


AT   SEA. 

3 

Save  where  the  flying  spray 

The  fever  of  delay 

Cools  from  the  heated  face, 
Bent  forward  in  the  chase 

Somewhither  day  by  day  ; — 

4 

Save  where  we  still  can  feel 

The  sea  beneath  us  reel 

With  longing  pain  and  strife, 
True  to  the  dream  of  life 

Which  is  its  woe  and  weal ; — 

5 

Save  where  the  clouds  that  range 
The  boundless  sky,  and  change 

With  every  breath  of  air, 

Yet  ever  calm  and  fair, 
Give  comfort,  true  and  strange  ; — 


AT  SEA. 

6 

Save  where  the  storms  we  meet 

Are  Nature's,  that  defeat 

Fear's  sloth,  and  make  more  clear 
And  pure  the  atmosphere, 

To  keep  our  purpose  sweet ; — 

7 

Save  where  our  very  sleep 

A  motion  still  doth  keep, 
That  lets  us  ne'er  forget 
The  dream  which  lures  us  yet 

To  follow  through  the  deep  ; 

8 

That  dream  which,  when  the  dull, 
Cold,  heavy  storm,  too  full 

Of  doubts  and  darkness,  passed, 

In  the  sunlight  at  last 
Rose  glistening,  beautiful. 


A  T  SEA. 

9 

O  dream  of  what  shall  be  ! 

Born  of  the  restless  sea, 
And  floating  high  between 
That  and  the  sky's  serene, 

Far-off  immunity  : 

10 

Something  of  both  must  rise 
In  every  soul  that  tries 
To  keep  thee  still  in  sight, 

So  hard  to  love  aright, 
Harder  to  realize  ! 

ii 

And  long  the  way,  indeed  ! 

But  why  should  we  be  freed 
Before  we  know  it  all  ?  • 
Whatever  else  befall, 

The  hope  is  what  we  need  : 


94 


A  T  SEA. 

12 

And  still  the  pain  obeys 

The  longing  that  allays, 
And  shapes  it  to  its  end  j 
To  make,  when  both  shall  blend, 

A  hope  that  ne'er  betrays  : 

13 

Still  we  can  keep  the  chase, 
Led  by  that  shape  of  grace  ; 
Still  strive,  and  strive  again, 
Hoping,  we  know  not  when, 
To  see  her  face  to  face. 

14 

What  else  ?     Ah,  yes  !  we  know 

That  we  are  sailing,  now, 

That  sea  where  many  a  brave, 
True  heart  has  found  its  grave, 

But  still  we  choose  to  go. 


A  T  UK  A. 

15 

Nay,  must !     How  shall  we  dare 
To  leave  them  lying  there 

Unanswered,  each  brave  heart 
That  dared  and  did  his  part, 
And  died  without  despair  ? 

16 

All,  all  the  more  may  we 

Trust  the  old  prophecy, 
And  sail,  still  singing  thus 
The  old  song  sent  to  us 

Along  the  stormy  sea ! 


95 


A    BLASTED    TREE. 

/^V  UR  care  and  waiting  have  nought  availed  ; 

The  boughs  are  blasted,  no  fruit  can  grow. 
Am  I  to  blame  that  the  tree  has  failed  ? 
I  planted  it  deep  enough  long  ago. 

Planted  it  deep  enough,  watched  it  well, 
Fenced  it  close  from  the  trampling  foot ; 

Am  I  to  blame  if  a  blast  from  Hell 

Scorched  and  withered  it,  branch  and  root  ? 

Here  was  the  earth  for  its  roots  to  hold, 
There  was  the  sky  for  its  top  to  find  ; 

Who  would  have  doubted,  who  saw  unfold 
Those  perfect  leaves  to  the  summer  wind  ? 


A    BLASTED    TREE.  97 

Not  you,  my  friend  ;  for  you  sat  with  me 

Under  the  tree  as  it  grew  so  fair, 
Marked  how  it  blossomed,  and  hoped  to  see 

And  taste  the  fruit  that  its  boughs  should  bear. 

Ashes  and  dust  are  its  fruits,  behold  ! 

Look  at  the  shadow  it  casts  us  now  ! 
Is  that  a  shade  as  we  planned  of  old, 

To  cool  a  man  with  an  aching  brow  ? 

Look  at  the  branches,  so  black  and  gaunt, 
Like  brands  of  shame  on  a  shrinking  sky  ; 

Is  that  the  green  that  we  used  to  vaunt 
As  a  resting-place  for  a  weary  eye  ? 

Is  that  a  place  whither  birds  may  wend  ? 

(For  that  was  part  of  our  dream,  you  know.) 
Look  at  that  bough — we  have  raised,  my  friend, 

A  noble  perch  for  a  cawing  crow  ! 


98  A    BLASTED    TREE. 

Fruit  and  singing — we  have  them  both, 
Brave,  bold  tree  with  a  steady  root 

And  a  lifted  head  ;  we  have  kept  our  oath  : 
Planted  a  tree — and  a  gallows  to  boot ! 

And  yet,  my  friend,  we  have  done  our  best, 
You  with  your  sympathy,  I  with  seed  ; 

And  now,  as  our  labor  deserves  its  rest, 
The  work  of  our  lives  is  a  curse  indeed  ! 

A  curse  for  us,  and  a  curse  for  all, 

Just  as  we  meant  that  the  joy  should  be  ; 

O,  it  is  hard  that  this  should  befall 

When  the  seed  was  sound,  as  we  both  agree  ! 

Well !  there  it  stands,  our  hope  and  shame, 
Our  truth  Hell  changed  to  a  hateful  lie  ; 

And  we  can  bear  with  the  scornful  name, 
For  God  will  alter  it  by-and-bye  ! 


99 


AN    ENEMY. 


T  T  7ELCOME  there — my  heart  is  strong, 

Ready  to  meet  you,  my  enemy  ! 
And  we  have  shunned  each  other  too  long  ; 

Now  let  us  fight  to  the  end,  and  see 

For  which  of  us  is  the  victory. 

2 

Fiend  or  angel !  here  I  stand, 

Ready  to  wrestle  the  long  night  through, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  and  hand  to  hand, 
And  one  of  us  falls,  or  I  or  you, 
Ere  morn's  gray  veil  slips  over  the  blue. 


TOO  AN   ENEMY. 

3 
Fiend  or  angel,  stand,  I  say  ! 

For  what  you  are  I  will  know  aright ; 
Better  to  die  at  the  break  of  day, 

Than  pass  you  now.     So  stand  to  the  fight ! 

A  curse  or  a  blessing  I  win  to-night. 


101 


THE    GOOD    PURSUIT. 

i 

T  DREAM  of  the  time  when  she 
Whom  I  follow  and  dimly  see, 
And  love  still  more  and  more 
As  ever  she  flies  before, 
True  leader  and  guide  to  me  : 

2 

I  dream  of  the  time  when  she 
Shall  be  clearly  seen  by  me, 
Still  flying,  the  beautiful  one, 
Still  leading  me  on  and  on 

To  the  lands  which  poets  see. 
/-.=* 


102  THE    GOOD   PURSUIT. 

3 

I  dream  of  the  time  when  she 

Shall  be  won  at  last  by  me, 

At  the  edge  of  the  promised  land, 
Which  we  enter  hand  in  hand. 

And  I  dream  of  what  shall  be. 

4 

Meanwhile,  'tis  a  joy  but  to  see 
The  white  robe  beckoning  me  ; 

Time  enough  for  a  sight  of  the  face, 
When  I  prove  myself  true  to  the  chase, 
And  am  what  she  persuades  me  to  be. 


io_3 


A    PATH. 

'  •  VHIS  is  the  way  she  went  when  last 

I  saw  her,  standing  beneath  this  tree, 
And  watching,  until,  the  gray  rock  past, 

She  turned  with  the  path  and  was  lost  to  me. 

Lost,  while  her  voice  yet  filled  my  ears  ; 

And  I  said  to  my  heart,  that  hardly  heard, 
How  love  gives  life  to  the  future  years  ! 

And  the  world  is  renewed  by  a  woman's  word  ! 

Lost,  while  I  stood  here  all  aglow 

With  the  smile  she  left  me,  dreaming  thus  ; 
But  never  dreaming — how  could  I  know  ? — 

Earth's  joys  were  over  for  both  of  us. 


104  A    P^TJ{- 

How  could  I  know  that,  once  let  fall, 

Her  hand  should  never  meet  mine  again  ? — 

That,  once  she  was  gone,  I  might  call  and  call, 
As  my  heart  now  calls  her,  and  all  in  vain  ? 

How  could  I  know  that  this  path  she  trod 
Was  so  much  more  than  it  seemed  to  be  ? — 

No  way  of  earth,  but  the  way  to  God, 
Ending  in  heaven,  so  far  from  me. 

How  could  I  know  it  ?  But  now  I  know  : 
This  is  the  way  that  she  walked,  and  I 

Will  walk  it  too,  and — God  grant  it  so  ! — 
Perhaps  I  may  come  to  her  by-and-bye  ! 


H 


i  °S 


ANTEROS. 


"OW  strange  !     A  year  ago 

Was  I  with  you, 
Full  in  the  light  that  hides  your  eyes, 
And  heard  your  bosom's  fall  and  rise, 
And  saw  the  full  lip's  speaking  swell, 

And  never  knew, 
Nor  cared  that  you,  mistaken  so, 

Had  that  to  tell 
Which  it  were  more  than  joy  to  know  ! 

2 

But  now,  that  you  are  gone, 

I  long  in  vain  ; 

And  hear  those  lips,  too  far  away, 
Tell  all  I  would  not  hear  that  day, 


106    '  ANTEROS. 

And  feel  those  eyes  burn  in  me  now 

With  aching  pain, 
And  shine  before  me  fully  known, 

Only  to  show 
That  I  am  lost,  and  all  alone. 

3 

So  ships  too  carelessly 

May  leave  the  gleam 

Which  marks  the  harbor  they  have  sought, 
And  sail  it  by  without  a  thought, 
But,  when  the  light  is  far  behind, 

Wake  from  their  dream 
And  would  return.     It  may  not  be  ; 

For  the  mad  wind 
Has  caught  them  on  the  lonely  sea  ! 


icy 


A    ROSE. 


T  T  TH.O  but  knows 

Nought  reprieves 

From  decay 
Once  begun  ? 
One  by  one, 
See  the  leaves 

Of  my  rose 

Fall  away ! 

2 

Fall  the  rest ! 
Was  it  I, 

Long  ago, 
Dared  to  say : 


Io8  A    ROSE. 

In  a  day 
It  shall  lie 
On  a  breast 
That  I  know  ? 

3 
'Tis  a  thing, 

At  the  best, 
For  her  scorn ; 

Ere  she  knows, 

Hide  it  close  ; 

Save  her  breast 
From  the  sting 
Of  the  thorn  ! 


109 


COMPENSATION. 

f  I  VHIS  is  the  rosebud  that  sighed  to  be  chosen, 

And  this  is  the  rosebud  she  chose — 
One  grown  in  God's  sunlight  a  beautiful  blossom, 

A  wide-opened  rose  ; 
One  merely  a  bud  on  a  woman's  sweet  bosom ; 

Two  lives  far  removed. 

But  who  shall  judge  these,  and  say  which  fate 

were  better ; 

Each  loses  a  something  the  other  would  gain — 
One  the  joy  of  the  rose,  one  the  joy  of  the  bosom ; 

But  no  life  is  vain  : 

And  who  knows  but  hereafter  the  rosebud  may 
blossom, 

The  rose  be  beloved  ? 
10 


no 


A    SPRING    SONG. 

/^i  AN  it  be — can  it  be  that  the  Spring 

Finds  me  still  struggling  here  all  alone  ? 
Ah  !  the  birds  that  I  love,  how  they  sing 

In  their  joy  that  the  Winter  is  gone  ! 

But,  for  me,  I  am  pale  with  dismay, 

As  I  mark  how  my  youth,  day  by  day, 
Wastes  and  wears  in  a  feverish  strife 

With  the  shadows  that  thrust  me  away 
From  the  wide-open  gate  of  my  life. 

Be  it  so  !     There  are  ways  yet  untried, 

And  I  fight,  and  I  fight  till  I  fall. 
At  the  least  I  can  fight,  holding  fast 

To  my  hatred  and  scorn  of  them  all, 
Till  I  meet  the  old  ally  at  last, 
And  Death  helps  me  to  thrust  them  aside. 


ITT 


FAINT  HEART. 


TT  7HERE  she  is,  who  can  say, 

Whom  my  longing  has  created  ? 

I  have  hoped  and  I  have  waited, 
Even  now  on  the  way, 
Growing  lonelier  every  day, 
Walk  as  bravely  as  I  may. 


But  my  life,  that  before 
Seemed  so  worthy  of  bestowing, 
How  it  changes  with  my  going  ! 
Though  I  love  more  and  more, 
Love's  lost  value  I  deplore, 
That  no  hoping  can  restore. 


II2  FAINT   HEART. 

3 

Yet,  my  love,  I  am  true  ; 
Still,  through  all  the  years,  am  saving 
This  poor  love,  not  worth  your  having. 
It  would  be  now  to  you 
But  a  sorrow,  if  you  knew  ; 
So  I  follow,  not  pursue. 


ri3 


A    VAGABOND. 

<  ATTERED  and  bruised  and  weak  and  worn, 
From  a  useless  fight  that  brought  but  pain — 
Pain  and  weariness  fit  for  scorn — 

To  whom  should  I  come  but  to  you  again, 

Old  Rock,  that  I  left  so  long  ago  ? 

Hard,  like  the  rest,  is  your  heart,  I  know, 

And  stern  your  face  ;  but  how  cool  it  is 
To  the  heated  forehead  that  throbs  and  aches — 

To  the  burning  cheek  that  has  known  no  kiss 
So  close  and  good  as  the  old  Rock  makes  ! 

Take  me,  old  Rock,  from  the  lonely  town  ; 

I  come  to  you  for  a  long  night's  rest. 
10* 


H4  A     VAGABOND. 

How  good,  after  suffering,  to  lie  down 
Safe  at  last  on  a  faithful  breast, 

That  will  not  shrink  as  the  others  do  ! 

And  yet  God  made  me,  they  say  ;  and  you — 
He  made  you  too,  for  a  friend,  and  a  bed 
Where  a  weary  man  may  lay  his  head, 

And  sleep  and  be  quiet,  and  have  an  end. 

O  the  good,  hard  bed !  O  the  good,  firm  friend  ! 
Found  out  at  last,  as  I  always  said — 
As  I  always  said. 


II1) 


UNKNOWN    BLESSINGS. 

T  HEARD  one  say,  the  other  day, 

When  speaking  of  a  friend  he  knew 
And  loved,  though  he  was  far  away, 

"  God  bless  him,  for  his  heart  is  true  !  " 

\ 

And  musing  to  myself,  I  thought, 
How  many  blessings  come  and  go — 

How  many  words  of  love  unsought, 
That  he  they  speak  of  cannot  know  ! 

And  now,  perhaps,  one  far  away, 
A  friend  whom  long  ago  I  knew, 

May  think  and  speak  of  me,  and  say, 
"  God  bless  him,  for  his  heart  is  true  !  " 


n6  UNKNOWN  BLESSINGS. 

Strange  mystery  of  joy  and  pain, 
That  keeps  with  us  where'er  we  go  ! 

The  sweetest  praise  that  we  can  gain, 
Is  that  which  we  can  never  know  ! 

But  marking  whence  the  yearnings  start, 
And  what  it  is  to  which  they  tend, 

I  seem  to  touch  the  living  heart 
Of  one  all-knowing,  perfect  Friend. 


A    SINNER. 

TTARD  enough  is  it,  when  spurning 

Earth's  joys,  I  would  reach  those  above ; 
When  the  soul  lifts  itself  by  its  yearning, 
And  strives  with  the  power  of  love  ; 

Hard  enough  is  it  then,  even, 
To  climb  and  be  sure  that  I  rise  ; 

Yet — for  I  climb  and  choose  heaven — 
The  pain  can  be  borne  till  it  dies  ; — 

Till  it  dies,  or  I  die  in  the  striving  ; 

What  matter,  so  long  as  but  true 
To  the  hope  and  the  love  of  true  living, 

I  climb,  and  the  climbing  renew  ? 


A    SINNER. 

Climb  and  climb  on,  though  believing 
But  half  in  the  progress  I  make, 

Yet  sure  of  one  thing — I  am  leaving 

The  false,  the  known  false,  for  truth's  sake. 

Would  that  the  story  here  ended  ! 

I  leave,  though  I  may  not  attain  ; 
And  strive,  though  forever  attended 

By  darkness,  and  doubting,  and  pain. 

Would  these  were  all !  enough,  surely, 
Were  these  to  be  borne  as  a  weight, 

Though  the  flame  of  my  yearning  burnt  purely, 
Too  strong  to  die  out  or  abate. 

But  mark  here  the  shame,  and  confess  it, 
That  often  I  choose  the  low  place  ; 

Feel  the  soul  rise,  but  repress  it — 
Choose  what  I  know  to  be  base  ! 


A    SINNER.  1I9 

Choose  it,  and  loathe  it,  but  choose  it ; 

Turn,  and  go  with  it  below  ; 
To  the  true  voice  that  bids  me  refuse  it, 

Listen,  and  calmly  say,  No  ! 

Drawn  by  no  subtle  deceiving, 

Lured  by  no  counterfeit  light, 
Caught  in  no  mad  unbelieving, 

Foiled  by  no  terrible  fight ; 

Not  unawares,  but  just  choosing 
The  thing  that  I  know  to  be  base  ; 

Spite  of  the  soul's  sad  refusing, 
Forcing  it  down  to  disgrace  ! 

Pain,  darkness,  and  doubt,  how  they  weigh  me ! 

But,  spite  of  these,  much  may  be  done ; 
At  the  worst,  perhaps,  they  but  delay  me 

From  what  should  be  painfully  won. 


120  A    SINNER. 

Would  they  were  all !     Let  me  even 
Gain  nought  by  my  labor  but  pain, 

If  I  only  have  truthfully  striven, 
Let  the  strife,  if  it  can,  be  in  vain. 

Only  save  me  from  basely  refusing 
To  follow  the  truth  when  it  calls  ; 

Only  save  me  from  wilfully  choosing 
The  thing  that  I  know  to  be  false  ! 

Only  save  me  from  these,  and  wherever 
Life's  ending  may  find  me,  yet  then 

The  one  fact  of  persistent  endeavor 
Shall  give  grace  to  its  story.     Amen. 


WON    AND    LOST. 

"\T  7E  could  have  lived  and  loved  aright  ;- 

What  mockery  the  words  appear  ! 
I  saw  your  naked  heart  that  night, 

Just  for  a  moment  touched  it  near, 
And  felt  it  throbbing  for  the  light 

Which  would  have  made  it  clear. " 

A  moment — yes,  but  that  alone, 
In  passing,  made  us  what  we  are  ; 

I  won,  and  lost  what  I  had  won  : 
As  men  look  sidewise  at  a  star, 

And  look  again  and  it  is  gone, 

And  after,  is  too  far. 
ii 


122  WON  AND   LOST. 

Whose  was  the  fault,  then  ?     Mine,  I  say ; 

Love  chooses  when  to  grant  his  grace, 
And  we  must  wait  it  night  and  day  ; 

But  I,  surprised  at  time  and  place, 
Just  saw  it  as  it  slipped  away, 
Lost  in  a  moment's  space  ! 

Then  came  the  world  to  claim  its  part ; 

The  merry  music  filled  the  hall ; 
I  saw  the  sudden  flush  and  start 

That  sudden  passed,  and  these  were  all 
That  told  me  how  the  woman's  heart 
Was  changed  beyond  recall. 

And  I,  who  might  have  set  you  free 
To  leave  the  narrow  life,  and  grow, 

And  saved  myself,  have  lived  to  see 
A  light  within  your  eyes  I  know 

Will  change  no  more  till  death.     Ah  me ! 
For  I  have  made  them  so. 


WON  AND    LOST.  123 

'Twas  hard  enough  for  me  to  bear, 
That  I  should  lose,  for  what  is  past, 

My  life  I  thought  to  make  so  fair  ; 
But  now  I  shudder  all  aghast 

At  what  you  are,  through  me  ;  and  there 
You  are  revenged  at  last ! 

For,  since  his  deeds  have  no  recall, 
For  man  to  wrong  himself  alone 

Is  bitter  ;  but  the  sting  of  all 

Comes  when  at  last  this  truth  is  known, 

That  he  must  wrong,  at  every  fall, 
Some  soul  beside  his  own. 


124 


LOST    AND    WON. 


'  •  VRUE  heart !  I  knew  how  it  would  be 
And  now  I  have  and  hold  you  fast. 
I  knew  it ;  something  said  to  me, 

"  Be  true  yourself,  and  she 

Will  come  to  you  at  last. 

2 
"  Be  quiet — wait ;  you  love  her  so, 

You  cannot  fail — she  is  your  own  ; 
She  wanders  now,  but  she  will  know, 
And  love  in  turn  bestow, 
When  once  your  love  is  known." 


LOST  AND    WON.  I25 


3 

And  so  I  saw  you  pass  me  by, 

And,  hoping,  hardly  felt  the  pain  ; 
And  you  went  on  and  on,  but  I 
Sent  out  my  heart  to  try 
Your  heart,  and  not  in  vain. 

4 
For  just  as  one  who,  as  he  goes 

Among  the  flowers,  may  chance  to  see, 
With  careless  glance,  an  opened  rose, 
And  passing,  hardly  knows 
'Twas  there ;  but  suddenly, 

5 
When  he  has  left  it  far  behind, 

A  sense  of  eager  longing  turns 
Him  quickly  back  again,  to  find 
A  joy  but  half  divined, 

For  which  he  strangely  yearns  : 
n* 


I26  LOST  AND    WON. 

6 

So  came  a  sudden  thought  to  you, 

And  thrilled  your  heart,  and  made  you  say, 
"  Somewhere  I  saw  the  good  and  true  ; 
Let  me  go  search  anew, 
And  find  it  if  I  may." 

7 
And  so  you  came,  with  eager  care 

And  longing  eyes,  to  find  me  out — 
Me,  who  was  waiting  for  you  there, 
Content  to  wait  and  bear, 
To  hope,  and  never  doubt ; 


And  my  heart  drew  you  straight  to  me, 

And  waiting,  wandering  were  o'er  ; 
And  then — I  knew  how  it  would  be — 

I  caught  you,  thus — and  we 

Are  one  forevermore  ! 


127 


THE    LIFE    OF    LOVE. 
/.    Under  the  Trees. 

f-=:~     ARTHUR. 

OO,  we  are  far  enough  away, 

To  find  ourselves  this  summer  day — 

Ourselves,  who  were  but  lost  before. 
And  here,  too,  is  the  place  we've  sought 

Since  long  ago,  and  never  found 

Till  now  we  pause,  and  seek  no  more. — 
Found  out  by  what  great  care  and  thought  ? 

A  butterfly  was  hither  bound, 
And  him  I  trusted  to  the  last, 
The  best  of  guides,  who  never  fast 

Nor  straightly  to  the  end  will  fly, 
But  round  and  round,  and  to  and  fro, 


I28  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

And  lets  us  saunter  as  we  go, 

E'en  to  the  place  for  which  we  sigh. 

HELEN. 

Best  guide,  indeed  !     Look  back,  and  see 
Through  what  full  fields  he  made  us  stray, 

Of  waving,  changing  gold  and  green, 

Unknown  to  all  but  you  and  me  ; 
Where  daisies  look  to  heaven  alway, 

And  wide  awake  on  earth  are  seen, 

Yet  ever  calm-eyed  and  serene  ; 

Where  gay  grasshoppers  hang  and  swing, 

And  unseen  crickets  shrilly  sing, 
And,  dreaming  in  the  sunny  air, 
The  drowsy  bee  forgets  his  care. 

ARTHUR. 

Sit  here,  just  where  the  elm  trees  bend 
Their  branches  to  the  stream  below, 


THE   LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

And  listen  to  the  songs  that  flow, 
And  change  and  flow  without  an  end, 

Mixed  with  the  voices  of  the  air, 
And  beating  of  our  hearts  that  yearn, 

And  try  if  you  can  catch  the  rare, 
Hid  grace  that  I  can  never  learn, 

Though  half  unconsciously  I  seem 

At  times  to  know  them  when  I  dream 
But  when  I  strive  to  think,  in  vain, — 
They  change,  and  baffle  me  again. 

So  listen,  while  I  hold  your  hand, 
And  if  you  find  the  mystery, 
Perhaps  'twill  come  from  you  to  me, 

And  so  I  too  shall  understand. 

HELEN  sings. 

If  you  and  I  could  stay  and  stay, 
Holding  fast  this  summer  day, 
Here  beside  the  water's  flowing, 


5o  THE   LIFE   OF  LOVE. 

No  one  knowing 
Whither  we  had  slipped  away  ! 
If  you  and  I  could  o'er  and  o'er 
Live  the  moments  lived  before, 
Here  beside  the  water's  flowing, 

No  one  knowing 
How  our  love  grew  more  and  more  ! 

ARTHUR. 

Reach  now,  and  see  if  you  can  pull 

That    flower,   whose    whiteness    seems    to 

change, 
As,  letting  fall  its  perfect  head, 

It  sees  itself  within  the  pool, 
And  starts  and  blushes  rosy  red, 
Like  some  sweet  girl,  who  thinks  it  strange 

That  she  should  be  so  beautiful. 

Now  let  me  place  it  in  your  hair, 

Where  from  the  first  'twas  meant  to  be  ; 


THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

God  grant  that  all  who  are  as  fair 
May  find  as  fair  a  destiny  ! 

HELEN. 

'Tts  strange  that  you  should  love  me  so  ! 
And  yet  not  strange,  but  only  true, 
That  you  love  me  as  I  love  you  ; 

And  that  is  all  I  care  to  know. 

Do  you  believe  that  this  flower  knew 
How  for  itself  'twas  loved  by  you, 

And  how  I  love  it  for  your  sake  ? 
I  know,  and  so  my  heart  is  full 

Of  love  to  God,  that  He  should  make 
The  one  you  love  so  beautiful. 

ARTHUR  sings. 

O,  it  were  sweet ! 
Ever  to  lie  thus  at  your  feet, 
Steadily  gazing,  not  at  the  skies, 


132  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

The  empty  skies  that  are  fixed  above, 
But  into  the  depths  of  falling  eyes, 
Where  a  naked  soul  in  its  beauty  lies, 

Answering  back  to  me  love  for  love. 

O,  it  were  sweet ! 

Ever  to  lie  thus  at  your  feet, 
Steadily  watching  the  curved  grace 

Of  your  white,  white  neck,  as  it  slowly  bends, 
Slowly  bends  through  the  waiting  space, 
Till  all  at  once,  on  a  longing  face, 

I  feel  your  lips,  and  the  singing  ends. 

• 
HELEN. 

You  are  my  poet,  singing  songs. 
Sweet  songs  that  only  flow  for  me  ; 

Were  it  best,  love,  to  keep  you  so  ? 
And  say,  while  yonder  the  world  longs 
With  a  strange  sense  of  hidden  melody, 
Which  he  alone  can  bid  them  know, 


THE   LIFE    OF  LOVE.  133 

He  keeps  apart,  and  none  but  me 
Knows  where  the  sweetest  songs  may  be  ? 
Rich  world — if  but  its  wealth  were  known  ! 
Poor  world,  that  cannot  find  its  own  ! 
And  what  am  I,  who  have  you  here  ? — 
You,  with  your  singing  strong  and  clear — 
You,  all  of  you,  heart,  soul,  and  mind, 
Whom  the  poor  world  looks  out  to  find — 

ARTHUR. 

And  would  not  know  if  I  were  found. 
But  you  have  found  me  with  those  eyes 
That  see  a  soul  through  all  disguise, 

And  I  am  yours  ;  so,  hold  me  bound. 
True  soul  of  mine  !  because  you  came 
Before  the  world  could  make  its  claim, 
And  all  at  once  I  found  my  life 
Without  the  doubtful  toil  and  strife, 

Because,  what  all  the  rest  would  gain, 
12 


I34  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

I  have,  without  their  wearing  pain, 
Shall  I  regret  it  ?     Hold  me  bound  ! 

He  sings. 

How  were  it  best  to  hold  me  bound — 

With  the  little  fingers  linked  in  mine, 
Or  the  two  arms  clasping  me  around  ? — 
Not  tight,  for  I  will  not  try  to  go, 

If  all  the  while  those  eyes  will  shine, 
As  now,  to  make  me  love  them  so. 
Or  were  it  best  of  all  that  hair 
(I  wonder  how  you  keep  it  there, 
From  falling  down  with  a  flash  of  light, 
To  hide  you  even  from  my  sight) — 
Or  were  it  best  of  the  hair  you  wear 
To  make  for  us  both  a  golden  chain, 
That  would  bind  us  close,  and  bear  the  strain 
Of  a  thousand  years  of  care  and  pain  ? 


THE   LIFE    OF  LOVE. 
HELEN. 

Perhaps  'twere  best  of  all  for  you, 
That  I  should  make  you  still  pursue. 
Somehow  I  think  that,  to  be  true, 

One  must  be  true  to  more  than  one  ; 
And  yet,  for  me  who  love  you  so, 
'Twould  be  too  hard  to  let  you  go  ; 

And  yet,  to  keep  you  all  alone, 
Seems  almost  like  a  shade  to  be, 
That  keeps  the  sunlight  selfishly, 
Unheeding,  so  itself  be  blest, 
The  outer  need  of  all  the  rest. 

ARTHUR 

The  flower  that  blushes  in  your  hair 
The  busy  world  might  think  was  fair, 
If  they  should  see  it  lying  there. 
But  if  they  saw  it  growing  low, 
What  would  they  think  of  it,  or  know  ? 


I36  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

So  I  am  yours  to  pluck  and  wear  ; 
And  think  not  that  the  world  will  care 
To  lose  a  flower  they  never  knew 
Till  they  were  told  of  it  by  you. 
Do  I  not  keep  you  even  so  ? 

And  think  you  that  our  lives  are  less, 
Because  we  choose  to  have  them  grow 

Unsoiled  by  outer  dustiness  ? 

HELEN. 

Have  I,  then,  such  a  hold  of  you  ? 
Then  may  God  help  me  to  be  true  ! 
And  I  am  weak.     But  you  are  mine — 
Remember,  mine — all  mine,  mine,  mine  ! 
Nay,  chide  not,  for  I  will  not  hear  ; 
And  you  are  wrong — 'tis  not  a  tear  : 
A  drop  of  coolness  from  the  flower  ; 
Or,  if  it  be  a  tear  at  all, 
'Tis  one  that  your  own  eyes  let  fall ; 


THE  LIFE   OF  LOVE.  137 

Kiss  it  away So,  that  is  best ! 

And — for  your  brave  guide  of  an  hour 
Is  gone — the  way  of  butterflies — 

I  will  guide  you  to  the  rest. 
Yonder  now  our  pathway  lies, 

To  the  sunset  and  the  West 

12* 


138  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 


//.     Under  the  Sky. 

ARTHUR. 

c  pERHAPS  'twere  best  of  all  for  you, 

That  I  should  make  you  still  pursue." 
Dear,  did  you  know,  a  year  ago, 
When  your  sweet  voice  said  this  to  me, 
What  God  had  planned  our  lives  to  be  ? 
How  all  is  changed,  since  then,  for  us  ! 

For  then,  beside  you,  hand  in  hand, 
I  stood,  and  thought :  Lo,  I  attain 

The  summit  of  my  life's  demand  ; 
And  so,  made  glad  and  glorious, 
What  more  is  there  for  me  to  gain  ? 
But  God  looked  down  upon  you  there, 

And  all  at  once  I  saw  you  change — 


THE   LIFE    OF   LOVE.  139 

Become  more  fair  who  were  so  fair, 

Attain  a  height  that  made  you  strange ; 

And  suddenly  a  greater  range 
Of  fuller  life  was  opened  wide, 

To  which  your  soul,  not  mine,  was  grown ; 
And  then  I  missed  you  from  my  side, 

And  shuddered  to  be  all  alone. 

And  yet  was  glad  ;  for  when  I  knew, 

Life's  hindrances  at  once  laid  by, 
You  gained  indeed  the  good  and  true, 
How  could  I  not  be  glad  for  you  ? 
You  walked  among  your  peers. — But  I 
Was  not  your  peer  ;  and  there  the  pain 
Reached  out  and  stabbed  me  once  again. 
And  as  I  reeled,  and  strength  was  less, 
Through  anguish  of  unworthiness, 
They  caught  me  blinded  with  my  tears — 
The  clinging  crew  of  doubts  and  fears, 
And  wrestled  with  me  for  my  love. 


I4o  THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE. 

But  as  I  wrestled  there  and  strove, 
Was  it  a  dream  ? — or  did  I  hear, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  night, 
(That  awful  silence,  when  the  fight, 
Breathless  before  the  final  strife, 
Ceased  for  a  moment  long  as  life,) 
Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  I  hear, 
Speaking  sweetly  low  and  clear, 
Just  as  of  old,  a  voice  I  knew  ? — 
"  For  you  are  mine  !  "     At  once  there  grew 
A  conqueror's  strength  within  my  soul, 

And,  wrestling  down  each  doubt  and  fear, 
I  stood  erect,  elate,  burst  through 
The  mists  that  hung  about  my  sight, 
And,  stretching  forward  in  the  light, 
Beheld  my  life,  its  course  and  goal. 

O  love — my  love  !   still  mine,  I  say, 

Though  gloriously  far  away  ; 

Mine  to  be  won  and  claimed  some  day, 


THE  LIFE    OF  LOVE.  141 

Though  life  no  longer  sees  us  stand, 
As  once,  together  hand  in  hand, 
Yet  we  are  nearer  than  before. 
For  lo  !  my  love  grows  more  and  more, 
And  gains  a  power  to  understand 
And  answer  love's  supreme  demand. 
Nearer  we  are — more  near  shall  be  ; 

For,  strengthened  by  your  love,  and  His 

Through  whom  my  life  is  what  it  is, 
I  journey  to  the  height  I  see. 
So  far  and  high  ?     But  I  shall  rise. 
So  hard  ?     No  other  satisfies  ; 

Let  me  rest  there.     And  so,  meantime, 
Rejoicing  in  the  far-off  goal, 
I  make  the  yearning  of  my  soul 

The  labor  of  my  life,  and  climb. 


142 


EPILOGUE. 

AD    MUSAM. 

T    OOK  at  me,  Dear,  from  where  thou  art,  who 
knows  ? 

Look  at  me,  lifting  empty  arms  on  high, 
And  mocked  at  by  the  unwaiting  wind,  that  blows 

Its  scornful  breath  upon  me,  and  goes  by 
With  a  low  laugh  at  him  who  waits  so  long ; 
And  still  waits  hoping,  though  an  awful  throng 
Of  barren  days  and  nights,  is  gathering  round 

Him  lonely,  who  with  impotent  dismay 

Sees  his  life  wasting  swifter  day  by  day, 
For  want  of  thee,  long  sought,  but  never  found. 

Long  sought !  but  not  sought  rightly,  or  else  I 
Had  found  thee  long  ago — there  is  the  pain  ! 
And  yet  I  love  thee,  and,  though  search  be  vain, 

Let  me  still  seek  thee,  and  still  seeking  die  ! 


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